"So you saw her, and couldn't resist her," said Bob. "Wasn't that how it happened?"
Mr. Worthington sat down again at the desk, and his hand began to stray among the papers. He was thinking of Mr. Flint's exit.
"I do not arrive at my decisions quite in that way, Robert," he answered.
"But you have seen her?"
"Yes, I have seen her."
There was a hesitation, an uneasiness in his father's tone for which Bob could not account, and which he attributed to emotion. He did not guess that this hour of supreme joy could hold for Isaac Worthington another sensation.
"Isn't she the finest girl in the world?" he demanded. "How does she seem? How does she look?"
"She looks extremely well," said Mr. Worthington, who had now schooled his voice. "In fact, I am quite ready to admit that Cynthia Wetherell possesses the qualifications necessary for your wife. If she had not, I should never have written you."
Bob walked to the window.
"Father;" he said, speaking with a little difficulty, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your—your coming round. I wanted to do the right thing, but I just couldn't give up such a girl as that."